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So she retrieved the switchblade from her pocket. “It’ll be over quickly,” she promised, the reassurance blown away by another gale that howled through her ears. She couldn’t promise that he’d feel no pain, but she could promise that the pain wouldn’t last.

She dragged the sharp edge of the knife across her palm, a hiss of discomfort catching in her throat as her skin split open. After wiping the blade clean on her pants, she cupped the back of Erasmus’s hand and carefully cut an identical line across his palm. Where his skin was weathered and wrinkled, hers was smooth and ageless, its only imperfection the single scar that ran from the heel of her hand to the base of her pinky. Human and hellseher blood welled in the moonlight, the smell drawing the attention of the predators skulking in the dark gaps between the trees.

They held their fists above the pail and squeezed, blood dripping, then tossed in the coins they brought as payment. The pieces of silver clanged when they struck the bottom, but the pail itself made no sound when dropped into the fountain. Not even a splash.

“Ready?” Erasmus asked again, taking her good hand into his.

She nodded, the wound already clotting. “Ready.”

They stepped up onto the stone rim…and waited, as if ringing a doorbell.

Two heartbeats passed before a fresh blanket of fog folded over them like a sheet. For a moment, nothing existed except the sound of their breathing and an endless canvas of white.

And then they arrived, the fog dropping to the floor like spilled milk, leaving them standing in a dark room, the walls of which were curved.

Crossing made them feel nauseous, so they took a moment to compose themselves before stepping off the edge of the fountain. Muck splashed beneath their shoes.

The spider had wedged herself into an alcove on the other side of the room, her gargantuan body supported by a hammock of webs that sagged under her weight. Wispy shadows clung to her like affectionate pets to their master, briefly tricking Cyra’s eyes into seeing more than eight legs.

“Well, isn’t this a delightful surprise?” the Widow remarked, her curious voice bubbling through the room. “I cannot say I expected to see the Sophronias anytime soon. How very delightful, indeed.”

“We come for advice,” Cyra began, tripping over her words. She was out of practice. Nineteen years—that was how long had passed since she had last sought out a creature of the Crossroads. Nineteen years since her last bargain.

Nineteen years since her greatest creation…and her biggest mistake.

The spider made a hungry, smacking sound. “And what have you brought me in exchange?” The webs of her resting place were studded with cocooned insects, their dead bodies sparkling like berries crusted with frost.

Cyra shared a glance with Erasmus. “Well, we—” She cleared her throat, the sound carrying. “We don’t…”

Foolish—they were foolish for coming here. The Nameless were chronically bored, chronically starving creatures withendless time at their disposal. Time to feast—to torture the poor souls they deemed unworthy.

Quite plainly, this was suicide.

But the Widow did the unexpected. The exhale she let out was one of…of understanding, Cyra thought. “You do not have anything left to trade.”

“We realize this isn’t customary,” Erasmus said tightly.

The spider chuckled. “Not at all. But I suppose I can spare you a listen.”

“Our daughter is being hunted,” Cyra confessed, the words turning her stomach. The running, the hiding, the many sacrifices they’d made—were all their efforts for nothing? “We come to you seeking advice on how to help her.”

“Liliana Sophronia.” The Widow spoke their daughter’s name as if it were a bird she’d held captive for quite some time, and was desperate to set it free. The name given to a mortal baby with a rainbow aura, who’d watched quietly—no tears, no fussing—as she was lifted from a pool of impossibly deep water, her skin scented with the delicate fragrance of violets.

Cyra swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes,” she whispered.

It was the reason they had come back to Angelthene. The minute they’d received word of the bounty on their daughter’s head, they had vowed to find a way to make her safe again. No matter how steep the price.

The Widow added, “She goes by ‘Loren Calla’ now.”

Cyra turned the name over in her mind, committing it to memory.

Loren Calla—the name her new parents had given her.

The name her new,betterparents had given her. Had they raised her properly? Given her a full and happy life?

Did they love her?

“Will you show her to us?” Cyra blurted, regret piercing a hole in her heart. Not just regret, but guilt too—so much guilt, she knew it would hold her prisoner forever, even after death.